Chen Hao took the packet of cookie crumbs from the kitchen drawer and casually stuffed it into his bag. He straightened up, glanced at the old oven in the corner, its exterior still slightly warm. He didn't say anything more, turned and walked towards the living room.

Susan was sitting at the table, holding a grayish-brown stone in her hand. She gently wiped the surface with a cloth and placed it in a small, clear box. The box was printed by Nana yesterday, and the label read "North Slope Rock Layers - First Map Sketch".

Carl was checking the last row of latches on the luggage rack. He pulled them one by one, letting go only when he heard a click. Hearing footsteps, he looked up at Chen Hao.

"What new tricks have you come up with this time?"

Chen Hao didn't answer, but walked to the round table and sat down. "We've lived here for three years and four months," he said. "We've repaired the roof seventeen times, replaced five air filters, and killed eight batches of vegetables."

Susan looked up. "You still remember these?"

"I have to remember even if I can't," Chen Hao grinned. "After all, I'm the one who climbs the pipes to connect the wires every time there's a power outage. I fell down three times, and my butt still hurts."

Carl snorted. "You took the spare battery apart like a spare part that time, and it made us black out for two days."

"That's called resource reuse!" Chen Hao exclaimed, wide-eyed. "Besides, didn't they restore power in the end?"

Susan smiled. She gently pushed the box to the center of the table. "I think... it's time to say goodbye properly."

Karl stopped what he was doing. "What exactly constitutes a formal method?"

"Let's have a ceremony," Chen Hao said, spreading his hands. "It doesn't need to be grand. We'll just sit down, say what we want to say, and bring something as a keepsake."

Nana's voice came from the terminal: "I can generate audio and video recordings and save them to the navigation log simultaneously."

“You’re part of it too,” Chen Hao said. “Don’t just be the recorder, you have to say something too.”

“I don’t have anything I have to take with me.” Nana walked out and stood by the table. “But what you said last night, I’ve categorized as ‘emotional anchors.’ I can replay them when needed.”

“It’s not a replay,” Susan said softly. “It’s participation.”

Nana paused for a few seconds. "Understood. I will prepare a speech."

Carl stood up and clapped his hands. "We need to put something out there. Otherwise, just talking makes it sound like a meeting."

“Right.” Chen Hao slammed his hand on the table. “Make a memory box, and put one thing in it for everyone.”

Susan immediately got up and rummaged through her medical kit. She took out a thin booklet with a worn cover. Opening the first page, she saw four crooked little figures sitting around a table, with the words "First day of eating, Chen Hao grabs the food" written next to it.

“This is it,” she said.

Carl thought for a moment, then turned and went to the engineering room. A few minutes later he returned, holding a charred circuit board with solder residue still on the edges.

"This is the result of the first attempt to repair the communications system," he said. "The base was cut off from communication for two weeks after the bombing."

"You still kept it?" Chen Hao took it and looked at it. "It's quite heavy."

“Failure is a process too.” Carl put the circuit board back into the box. “It’s better than trying nothing at all.”

Nana brought up the system interface and projected a shared document onto the table. "A 'Planetary Memory Bank' has been created. Everyone can enter text, images, or voice clips at any time."

"Will this thing last until the spaceship lands?" Chen Hao asked.

"Data is encrypted and stored, and cross-device migration is supported," Nana said. "As long as the core power supply remains uninterrupted, the information will not be lost."

“Then I’ll record a segment later,” Chen Hao said. “Just the time Karl burned the food while cooking, and I saved the day by bringing him some nutritional paste.”

“Yours is even worse,” Carl sneered. “The recycling machines won’t even process it.”

"That's an innovative flavor!"

Susan laughed out loud. Looking at the items on the table, she suddenly felt a sense of relief somewhere inside her.

“I want my children to know,” she said, “that’s where we started. It wasn’t an escape, it was a choice to leave.”

Carl nodded. "I also hope that in the future, when someone comes here and sees that the base is still there, they will know that we really lived."

Nana said quietly, "I will preserve each of your tones of voice, laughter, and heart rate. If this history is to be reconstructed in the future, I can recreate seventy-eight emotional details."

Chen Hao raised an eyebrow. "So, have you recorded my snoring by now?"

“Not only that,” Nana said expressionlessly, “but also what you say in your sleep. Like, ‘The last cookie is mine.’”

There was a moment of silence in the room, then laughter erupted.

Carl gave a rare twitch of his lips. "Then you'll have to cut that scene—the one where Susan catches him sneaking a snack with compressed rations in the middle of the night."

"Whoever deletes this is a coward!" Chen Hao jumped up. "That's called emergency energy replenishment!"

The laughter gradually subsided. No one got up, and no one spoke.

The lighting was dim, with only a small lamp on the table. The memory box sat in the center, already containing stones, circuit boards, notes, and cookie crumbs. Nana had just imported a recording of last night's tea party into the system as the opening act for the ceremony.

"We'll hold this ceremony tomorrow after we finish repairing the last line," Chen Hao said, looking at everyone.

"Not recording?" Susan asked.

“Record it,” Chen Hao said, “but only once. Anyone who wants to watch it later will need all four of them present to unlock it.”

Carl nodded. "Okay."

Nana closed the editing interface. "Data collection is complete, and the ceremony can begin at any time."

Together they moved the memory box to the center of the round table. Chen Hao found several old lamps and arranged them in a circle around the box. The dim light shone on everyone's faces.

Susan touched her belly. "I hope my child can one day walk on this sand and know that Mommy and Daddy started from here."

Carl said in a low voice, "I also hope that one day, someone will find this base, see our names, and say, 'So there really were people who survived here.'"

Nana looked at them and said softly, "I will keep these records until they no longer need to be remembered."

Chen Hao smiled. "What if I get old when I talk? Will you still recognize me?"

“Yes,” Nana said. “The voiceprint matching accuracy rate is 99.7%.”

"What about that 0.3% difference?"

"It's probably from when you're laughing more."

Carl stood up and carefully inspected the memory box's latch. He pressed it down to make sure it was secure, then tightened the screws on both sides with a tool. His movements were slow, as if he were securing something extremely fragile.

Susan gently placed the medical notes inside and closed the lid. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the box for a few seconds before releasing them.

Nana updated the psychological support module, adding a new rule: when a team member mentions the "past," the memory archiving program is automatically activated.

A system notification sounded: [Emotional Simulation Level +1]

Chen Hao stood at the door and glanced back.

The table under the lamplight resembled a small altar. Four people stood around it, but none of them moved.

He didn't say anything, but simply adjusted his bag over his shoulder.

Carl crouched down and gave the shock-absorbing padding at the bottom of the box a final check. He ran his palm over the surface of the material to make sure there were no cracks.

Susan said softly, "When the baby is born, I'll tell him who picked up this stone."

Nana stood in front of the terminal, her face reflected on the screen. She had no expression, but her eyes blinked twelve percent less frequently than usual.

Chen Hao walked back to the table, picked up the packet of biscuit powder, and tore off a small corner.

He poured a little powder onto his fingertip and gently sprinkled it into the gaps of the memory box.